Rohan

Anatole Aston · 12-25-2011, 12:48 PM

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Slow, steady movements took him ever closer to the prey. Anatole was a hunter who knew the limits of his talent and was not above scavenging an easy meal. While prideful, that pride was weighed carefully by the resolute realism of a feral beast. He could not take down an elk on his own, unless it was wounded or truly sick. This was why he went after smaller things when he sought his own food—in this case, the noisy weasel that had just concluded combat with a porcupine.

Too good to pass up, Anatole had waited until the victor had begun to eat before he struck. It was a fast movement, and one made to kill instantly. The weasel’s sharp claws tore at his winter pelt, but as it had thickened to deal with the hiemal air, he barely felt their true impact. One savage shake of the head broke the heavy things neck, and Anatole, pleased with this, hesitated before eating. While he was not capable of making use of the fur, it was something he had seen others do and thus valuable. Reluctantly, he shifted to his optime form.

With a full belly, the wolf carefully shifted the pelt (which he had ripped away with his bare hands) to carry the bloody porcupine carcass. The needles would be useful for something, though he was not a craftsman and knew little about such things. With a huff, he began to make his way back to the village.

Anatole was nearly there when the sound of a horse reached his ears. He slowed only slightly, but found the woods broke into a clearing. A black wolf was running a horse in a circle with a long rope. Curious, the green-eyed man slowed to a halt. He did not announce himself.

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